Won't Back Down

by J. D. Rhoades

  Except now, Al-Masri’s gone off the reservation, again, and hired his own bodyguard. Keller. Blair has to admit Keller’s got an impressive history of getting in and out of trouble. And his estranged father had apparently forged some sort of dark legend of his own in the Cold War days and the chaos that came after. But however talented an amateur Keller may be, he’s still an amateur, and Blair has no patience for amateurs.

  He stands up and stretches. He considers waiting for the reply from Langley about what to do about the Keller situation, but he’s getting antsy in this tiny motel room. Maybe if he has another talk with Al-Masri, the man will see reason and let him do his job without outside interference. He scoops his keys off the dresser and walks outside. As he’s unlocking the rental car, he hears the honking of a horn from across the parking lot. He looks up to see a pickup truck approaching. Reflexively, he opens the door and reaches for the pistol he’s hidden between the door and the driver’s seat. As he comes up, gun in hand, he sees the driver of the truck passing by slowly. It’s Keller. The man actually waves at him as he drives past. He speeds up and squeals his tires as he exits the parking lot. Blair has to fight down the temptation to open fire on the cocky son of a bitch. He takes a deep breath and puts the gun down, carefully sliding it beneath the seat. Okay, the guy made you. You underestimated him, and he made you. Now what? When he’s feeling calm again, he decides to stick to his original plan. Talk to Al-Masri. Try to persuade him to cut Keller loose. He gets in the car and pulls away from the motel, not noticing the other pickup truck that falls in behind him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “He’s headed for Khoury’s house,” Waller says.

  Tench is attaching a suppressor to his favorite pistol, an HK45 tactical. “Good. So are we.” He looks up. “We’re coming to the bridge. Get ready.”

  They’re traveling down a two-lane country road, with thick stands of pine trees on either side. They’ve been down this road at least a dozen times, and they know there’s a narrow bridge coming up that spans the Deep River, one of the tributaries that come together to form the Cape Fear River. The small rental driven by their target is a quarter mile ahead, the target still oblivious to their presence. Tench looks over at Waller. “You going to make your move, bro?”

  Waller speaks between gritted teeth. “Wait for it.”

  Tench frowns, wondering if his partner is getting cold feet. Maybe the mention of The Company has spooked him. He’s about to speak up again when Waller stomps on the accelerator and the truck leaps forward, engine straining.

  “Hang on,” Waller says.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Blair’s not looking in his rearview mirror as the truck that’s been behind him for the last few miles has accelerated, and it’s only the suddenly increased volume of the engine that tips him off. That delay costs him. He glances back just in time to see the front of the larger vehicle draw even with his left rear quarter panel, then even with the door. He tries to speed up, too late to make any difference. The impact as the truck swerves into him shoves his small car to one side and nearly off the road. A plume of dust shoots up as his right tires kick up dirt and gravel. He’s fighting the wheel, trying to force his way back onto the hard road, but the white truck swerves into him again, inexorably pushing him off to the side. He only has time to growl a curse under his breath before he looks back to the windshield and sees the bridge abutment just ahead. He brakes as hard as he can, but he’s too close. With a sickening crunch of rending metal and a spray of broken glass, the car slams into the abutment.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Waller pulls the truck to a stop on the bridge, then backs up, next to the blue compact. Tench is out and moving towards the mangled pile of metal and broken glass before the truck is fully stopped. The target is slumped forward, but still moving. Tench raises his pistol in a two-handed grip and continues advancing, waiting for the point-blank shot. The first shot that rings out, however, doesn’t come from his own weapon, but from inside the car. The target, injured and dazed as he is, has managed to raise his own pistol and get off a shot that whines past Tench’s left ear. “Motherfucker,” Tench snarls, and opens fire, the reports muffled by the suppressor to the point where all that can be heard is the action cycling on the semi-automatic. The target’s head slews to one side, then his body slumps over. Tench doesn’t lower his gun until he’s standing by the car and can visually confirm the hole in the side of the driver’s head. Without taking his eyes off the body, he motions behind him to Waller. In a moment, Waller passes him, carrying a large clay flower pot in each hand. Each pot is filled three-quarters full with a light gray powder. A long, twisted black fuse is standing up in the powder. Waller puts one of the pots on top of the car, towards the back, above the fuel tank. The other one goes on the roof above the body of the driver. Waller pulls out a cigarette lighter and lights first one fuse, then the other, as Tench begins backing away. Tench can’t believe his eyes when he sees the body in the truck begin to stir. “Bro,” he calls out, “I don’t think he’s dead.”

  “Too bad for him,” Waller says grimly. “’Cause this shit’s gonna hurt.” Tench raises his gun to finish off the target, but by then the fuses have caught and Waller’s running past him as fast as he can. Tench has no choice but to turn and follow. The truck’s moving again before Tench can even get his passenger door fully closed. He looks back to see a figure moving inside the car. Then the homemade thermite inside the flowerpots catches fire and blossoms into twin balls of white-orange flame. The chemical reaction of the burning aluminum powder creates a cascade of molten iron that begins to cut through the thin metal of the vehicle as if it were paper. Tench turns away, nodding with satisfaction. If the son of a bitch wasn’t dead before, he surely is now. He hears a dull thump and looks back again. The hot stream of metal has reached the gas tank, igniting the fuel within, and all he can see is a pillar of smoke and flame as they drive away. If experience is any guide, Tench knows there won’t be much left of either driver or vehicle to identify. He turns to Waller. “We still need to get rid of this truck. We got dents all down one side that I don’t think we can cover up with Bondo.”

  Waller doesn’t take his eyes off the road or acknowledge the lame joke. “I know.”

  “You got something lined up?”

  Waller just nods. “On it. Once we pick up the other targets. We just bought ourselves a little time.”

  Tench smiles. He’d been worrying that the other man might be getting a little wobbly, but his performance at the bridge was reassuring. That’s good. This next part is bound to get ugly.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Alia and Bassim are waiting for him in the designated spot in front when Keller swings in. Marie’s not out front today; the other SRO, a big, beefy, square-jawed ex-deputy who Keller thinks is named Rogers, is out front directing traffic. Keller’s only met Rogers a couple of times, but he seems like a solid guy. He pulls the truck door open and peers at Keller, his brow wrinkling with puzzlement. “Jack, right?”

  “Yeah,” Keller answers. “I’m here to pick up the Khourys.” He looks past Rogers to where the two are standing, looking uncertainly at each other.

  Rogers’s frown deepens. “You on the pickup list?”

  “I should be. Their dad hired me to make sure they get to and from school okay.”

  Rogers shakes his head. “I didn’t see the update.” He cocks his head at Keller. “You’re Jones’s friend, right?”

  “Yeah.” Keller’s not totally sure of that status right now, but he’ll gamble on it.

  Rogers nods. “Okay.” He steps aside and leans the passenger seat forward to let Alia clamber in.

  She nods to Rogers, then to Keller, and takes her seat in the crew cab with all the dignity of a princess climbing into her carriage, looking straight ahead. Keller represses a smile. She clearly still hates the situation, but she’s not going to whine or complain anymore.

  Rogers puts the seat back and Bassim cl
imbs in. “’Sup,” he says, jerking his chin at Keller with such exaggerated insouciance that Keller laughs out loud.

  “’Sup,” he replies. Bassim grins as they pull away.

  Keller’s not used to making conversation with children, but he reaches for the only subject that he can think of. “So, how was school?”

  “Sucked,” Bassim says cheerfully. “Sucked big ol’ donkey balls.”

  Keller glances back at Alia to check how she reacts. She doesn’t. Keller nods. She’s learning. Best way to deal with someone trying to needle you is to ignore them. “How about you?” Keller calls back.

  “It was fine.” She’s not warming up, but she’s unfailingly polite. Until she turns to him and asks sweetly, “So you are Officer Jones’s friend?”

  Keller feels as if he’s stepped into a minefield. “Yeah. You could say that.”

  “I heard you’re her baby daddy.” Bassim smirks, and suddenly Keller doesn’t like him as much as he did a minute ago. He slows down, then pulls the truck over to the side of the road. Bassim looks alarmed, and even Alia has a worry line between her brows, a crack in her icy facade. Keller takes a deep breath. He’s not here to frighten children. “Look, guys,” he says with all the calm he can muster. “Whatever history Officer Jones and I have, that’s our business. But if you really need to give someone a hard time about it, give it to me. Every day. All day if you like. But leave her alone, okay? It’s a tough situation, and she’s got a tough job. I don’t want it getting any harder.” He looks from one of them to the other. “Okay?”

  Bassim is looking down, embarrassed, but Alia is nodding. When she speaks, her voice is soft. “You care a lot about her.”

  Keller looks her in the eye. “Yeah. I do.”

  “Well, okay,” Bassim says, looking up with a smile. “As long as we can give you shit about it.”

  Keller smiles back. “Deal.” But the smile fades. “But don’t push me.”

  Bassim looks alarmed again, until Keller grins. “Gotcha.”

  Bassim shakes his head and laughs, a little nervously. “You’re a fucking riot, Jack.”

  “Bassim,” Alia says.

  Keller silences her with a wave. “You don’t ever need to worry, Bassim.”

  “Buzzy,” the boy says.

  Keller leans back in surprise. “What?”

  Bassim nods. “I’ve decided I need a more American name. Buzzy’s close to my real name, and it sounds pretty American, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, yeah,” Keller says. “But…”

  “Bassim!” Alia snaps, her eyes wide and mouth twisted in outrage. “You will not be…be…Buzzy! What are you—”

  He grins at her. “Gotcha.”

  She looks at him in shock for a moment, then makes a sound that’s a combination of a sigh and a growl, slumps back into her seat with crossed arms and turns to look out the window.

  Keller scowls at Bassim. “What did I tell you about trolling your sister?”

  “That it’s fun?”

  Keller shakes his head. “You and I are going to have a long talk, kid.” He starts the truck and pulls back onto the road. Alia’s slumped furiously in the backseat, while Bassim is looking absurdly pleased with himself. Despite it all, Keller’s really starting to like these two.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Waller and Tench arrive at the Khoury house, a one-level mid-century modern with lots of glass and odd angles, sitting on a big, sandy, wooded lot. It’s a little before the time when they’ve determined the bus drops the kids off. The corner where they’re dropped off is about fifty yards from the property, and the plan is to wait till the bus leaves, then scoop the children up and take them to the place in the country they’ve rented. Al-Mansour had groused about the cost, but eventually succumbed to the logic of needing someplace isolated to do whatever needed to be done. Waller has a cooler behind the seat of the truck, with a jug of chloroform and several rags pre-soaked with the stuff. “What can I say?” He’d shrugged when Tench had suggested syringes of paralytic drugs. “I’m a fan of the classics.” In addition, he’d argued, drugs required precise dosages and could take minutes to take effect. This acquisition requires a fast grab and takedown. Waller had also nixed the use of the flashbang grenades they’d brought along. Too noisy, he’d said. Too likely to attract the neighbors.

  Tench checks his watch. “Any minute now.”

  Waller nods. He chambers a round in his Beretta 9 mm, acquired in a Fayetteville pawn shop under one of a dozen false sets of papers. He doesn’t think the pistol will be necessary, but he’s always taken a suspenders-and-belt attitude towards this kind of operation. It never hurts to be prepared, because there’s always something going wrong.

  Like today. It’s not a bus that pulls up to the corner down the road, it’s a big black pickup that pulls into the Khoury’s driveway. And it’s not the skinny boy or the tall girl who get out first, it’s a tall, rangy guy with long blond hair.

  “Who the hell is that guy?” Tench mutters.

  Waller shakes his head. “I don’t know. He looks familiar for some reason.”

  “Guess they’re not riding the bus.” Tench lets out an exasperated sigh. “So I guess we have to take out this jackleg now.”

  The blond man is saying something to the kids, a smile on his face. Then he glances their way and the smile vanishes. He turns slightly, and a shock of recognition runs through Waller. “No. Fucking. Way.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Keller pulls the truck into the driveway, laughing at Bassim’s imitation of Mr. Lynch, the science teacher. He stops and sets the parking brake. “Okay, guys. Go on in. I’m going to look around a bit.”

  “For what?” Alia looks at him curiously.

  “Just getting the lay of the land.” He opens the door and steps down. If he’s going to do a proper job of guarding, he needs to reconnoiter. As his boots touch ground, he notices the white Ford truck parked down the road. His smile at Bassim’s joke fades. “Guys,” he says. “Get in the house.”

  Alia is the first to pick up on the change in tone. “What’s wrong?” Then she notices the truck as well. “Bassim. Get inside.”

  “What?” the boy says. “What’s going…?”

  “Now!” Alia snaps.

  “Jesus. Okay.” Bassim starts toward the house, slouching insolently until he too catches sight of the truck and notices Keller and Alia’s fixation on it. “Jack?” he says uncertainly.

  “Move,” Keller snaps. He looks beside him to see Alia standing there. “You too, kid.”

  Alia’s voice is steady. “My father has a pistol. In his bedside table. Do you need it?”

  Keller almost laughs, not in derision, but in amazement. “Thanks. Brought my own. But…” He stops.

  “What?” The girl is still staring at the truck.

  “You know how to use that gun?”

  “Is it hard?”

  Keller nearly groans. “Get inside. We’ll talk about that later.”

  She lifts her chin defiantly, but Keller can see it trembling. “I’m not afraid.”

  “I know. That’s why you’re in my goddamn way. Now get your ass inside.”

  She stares at him, looking as if she’s about to cry—from fear or anger, he can’t tell. Then she turns and runs back to the house. She leaves her bookbag behind her on the ground. Keller doesn’t take his eyes off the white truck. He backs up toward his own vehicle, fumbles the door open, and reaches below the seat for the .45 caliber Colt 1911 he’s stashed there. Before he can get it out, however, the white truck starts up and pulls away. Keller looks, but he can’t make out the face behind the wheel. He holds the big gun down by his leg as he watches the truck take a right at the intersection. He takes a deep breath, marveling at how good he feels. He recalls another voice from his past. You need to run after people and kick down doors and take out the bad guys. You need to put yourself in the line of fire. You don’t feel alive unless you’re doing that.
It had all been true, and it’s cost him every love he ever had. He bows his head and sighs. The wind is picking up, and he hears the distant roll of thunder. He looks up, savoring the cool breeze on his skin.

  Then he hears the gunshot from inside the house.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “You mind telling me that that was about?” Tench demands.

  Waller’s staring straight ahead through the windshield. “That guy? The guy who was driving the Khoury kids home? I’m ninety-nine percent sure that was Jack Keller.”

  “Who?”

  Waller reaches into a pocket, pulls out a pack of Marlboros. “You ever hear of Arlen Riddle? Did a lot of work down south of the border. They called him the Hellhound.”